Reverie of the Penumbra
by Volatile Tenebriosity -Volt
Summary: Stiles faces the consequences of the Nogistune, Peter manipulates everyone and thing, Derek and the rest are dragged down with them. What will become of the young man as his entire life is set before him and torn apart. Can he save himself and his friends from the disaster he brought down on them. Can he make it to the other side of this eclipse? Or will the moon take his being.
1. Chapter 1

Stiles had categorized his nightmares; it was his own morbid way of coping with them. Recent months he may have created more intense levels of nightmare rating. But nothing quite compares to what he just suffered. It started off normal, he woke up with blinding sunlight filtered through the blinds. His dad was knocking on the door frame, "Stiles? Come on kiddo time to get up." his favourite mug had what remained of a particularly strong brew of coffee and the scent wafted into the room. Stiles groaned and stretched feeling the quiver of his muscles and a few joints settle.

He doesn't quite remember getting up and getting dressed, little bits and pieces of his bathroom routine. An average teenager waking up to early after going to sleep to late. When he got downstairs -his bookbag slung over his shoulder, a plate on the table with a good serving of eggs and turkey bacon was waiting for him.

He sat down and ate quickly almost needing to rush, he didn't need another teacher riding his case about tardiness. Before he left his dad gave a solid pat to his shoulder, "Stay safe ok kid?" he smiled. Stiles grinned, "Yeah yeah, you too alright? And no fast food were having casseroles tonight." his dad rolled his eyes before pushing Stiles out the door.

No one could blame him for not realizing it. Not noticing the blurriness at the corners of his vision, the way the day seemed oddly coloured. He felt normal, the ride to school felt normal. The only thing wrong was nagging feeling like he had left a paper or note, which was fine and normal.

What wasn't normal was the student vacancy in the parking lot. Or on the buses. Or in the halls.

No one could blame him for the way his heart started to pick up pace. The little hitch of breath stuck in his throat, a side effect of a stuttering heart.

The lights weren't even on just the emergency ones flashing red...when did the school install those? The usually cheery building was silent and his footsteps echoed which reminded him of the night Peter had attacked them in the school.

That's when it occurred to him that he hadn't followed through with his morning schedule. So slowly he glanced at the walls, he could read the words on flyers...but that didn't deter him from looking to his hands.

He was frozen to the spot. All ten digits shivering beneath a thick layer of dark copper. The floor beneath him bathed in red both flashing and staining. He looked up slowly, the staccato in his chest rising to his throat in a terrific cry of horror.

Bodies...lots and lots...of bodies. Some haphazardly laying on the floor, others reaching for door handles. Some of them were sitting up right against the walls. The wounds varied but each one had a violent set. Heads caved in and throats practically ripped out. Some of the faces were to mangled to recognize and others he knew too well.

He walked through them suddenly aware he couldn't feel his own legs. He was screaming though, crying out and crying tears. Bodies littered the whole building.

"Scott?" he called out meekly, his throat tightened and all awareness this was a dream had settled behind him, forgotten. He tried again,"Lydia?...Malia..."

He turned a corner and stopped again, empty. No bodies no flashing. Just solid red light and open doors. When he walked by them they would slam shut and he would jump back, his legs felt paper thin.

When the doors kept slamming and the hall got longer he started to run, run towards the doors that lead outside.

He lost time and space, and when he burst through the doors he was shocked so much that he fell to his knees. He rushed to catch his breath while the beginnings of a panic attack seeped into his mind. His chest tightened up and his hands shook. Only when he looked down at them did he notice the soft grass that tickled at his palms.

The field... he felt the words float around his head, not quite making sense. He was then filled with another sense of dread, looking down he could see a root burying itself into the soft dirt. He followed the root upwards to a far too familiar tree trunk, then up more; the sight that greeted him more terrifying then anything he had ever seen. Strung up in the branches of the large oak, his friends bodies swayed at the end of ropes. Their eyes were all open and some were still glowing. Scott's body was intact up to his neck which was tilted at a truly sickening angle. His eyes glowing like fresh embers. Unwavering eyes settled on him.

He doesn't remembering screaming, but the sound of it filled the air. Screams and Screams...mostly his own name; mostly they were his friend's screams.

His dad was even there, in full uniform his neck snapped backwards.

Stiles fell back and tried to push himself away but the roots had grabbed him, dragging him in closer to the tree and wrapped around his throat squeezing out his breath. He was hoisted up kicking and making strangled wrenching noises. He was only hoisted up enough that his feet didn't touch the ground.

He kicked and struggled his vision turning white and his lungs screamed. Certain he was going to die; he couldn't do anything but scrape at the root around his neck and frantically cry out for help.

Stiles...

He scrambled again wheezing. The tree swaying and the bodies turning towards him.

Stiles stop writhing like a rat...stop acting weak.

He couldn't make out the owner of the voice among the rest of the white noise, but something in it was soothing, sliding through the noise with a rush of clarity. Of course Stiles wasn't weak...he would never be weak. His mother's body was to his right, and the thought of dying like her made him panic more.

Let go...give me your hand instead.

And a hand extended towards him his blurry vision couldn't make out the figure only their two piercing blue eyes. Stiles grasped out and sure thick fingers curled around his wrist and pulled him free, sending him sprawling awake.

His heart was fluttering in his chest like he had just ran one of coaches famous suicide drills. He laid there regaining his breath before looking at his clock, it was four in the morning on a Thursday. And the moment he formed this conscious thought the details of the dream flickered away. He could only truly remember the horrific amount of bodies and blood, the Nematon with his hanging friends and family. And still through the haze he could see the blue eyes staring into his.

He had no intention of going back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Stiles got to school he avoided looking at people. Mostly their faces because some of them he could still see mauled and frozen with... He slammed his locker quickly the stop that thought from getting worse.

Scott -who was currently chatting idly about his long awaited date with Kira after school- jumped at the sound and frowned, "Dude what's wrong?" he tilted his head and gave one of his worried puppy looks.

Stiles sighed and shook his head, "Just tired s'all. Don't worry about me. So, anything other than your" he air quoted for the next bit, "going to be perfect and romantic but in a charming and totally sweet way, date tonight; that you wanted to discuss." he leaned against the lockers trying to ignore the perfume drifting towards them, something severely cherry related. Scott pulled his eyebrows together in thought then grinned and shook his head, with the big ole' crooked smile, "Nope". At which point the bell rang and saved Stiles from another onslaught of adjectives. They pair split up for the block and managed to get to their respective classes in decent time. This particular class was nothing special, save for the ridiculous amount of axe and chalk and Jesus who has a ring tone like that? Same was the next block, and lunch. But the moment he stepped into his third block class something burrowed beneath his skin, riddling him with cautionary goosebumps.

He took his seat next to Scott and blinked, something felt off, skewed. Scott nudged him, "You ok?...kinda doing that whole look again." he looked genuinely worried.

Stiles blinked again and nods, "Yeah buddy no worries. Just you know..." he paused thinking...lost on which thought to chase; another round of bells and smells and sounds distracting him to much to form a coherent excuse.

"Tired?" Scott filled in for him; smiling almost apologetically. Stiles nods and flinches as Coach called them out on their "girl talk". The class went by slowly and the tapping noises of pencils filled it thoroughly, it made Stiles' stomach queasy and his throat tight but that weird threatened feeling subsided. Class was almost through that it started again, the odd feeling like a rabbit trapped in its hole. The noises seemed louder and the smells thicker after wards in a sense of adrenaline rush. His vision blurred for a moment, when he looked up it seemed to still of an image, like a poorly taken photograph. His skin buzzed and is throat tightened like a lump of honey was trapped. Sometime during this his heart started to pick up speed again. He could vaguely hear Scott trying to get his attention but his was frozen. Scott watched his frightened friend and his worry increased as he tried to whisper harshly and snap him out of it. Stiles' eyes were still frozen on the wall.

The bell rang and its shrill note almost made him throw up like seriously he could taste the bile in his throat, he grabbed his bag and moved like he was still in a dream and frankly any thought of dreaming terrified him, which only made Scott worry more and follow him. He made a dash for the outside doors and pushed through them, gasping for breath. It wasn't an attack, it didn't feel like an attack. He was just hearing and seeing and smelling and feeling way too much. Scott watched like the good concerned best friend he was as Stiles collapsed against the wall.

When Stiles managed to calm his heart and catch his breath he tried to run through his frantic thoughts, one such being something called hypersensitivity and it made a bit more sense what was happening and he calmed down more, he always felt better knowing reasons. Scott crouched next to him and used his most quiet voice, "Stiles...buddy?"

Blinking away the burning in his eyes Stiles looks up and sighs, "Just...a moment of extreme... loss of control on the sensitivity buttons...I'm good." he took a deep breath and looked at Scott doing his best not to throw up. Maybe it was a side effect...maybe the dream was too...

Scott didn't seem to think that was any better of an answer then "just tired" so he didn't budge just kept looking at Stiles worriedly, like how his mother used to look at him when he had a fever. Stiles smiled bitterly, "Get to class Scotty, I'll be good in a few..." he pushed on his friend's shoulder lightly unbalancing him. Scott still looked unsure but he stood anyways. After everything with demonic ninjas and crazy fox demons...Stiles had seemed off to him like a damaged object. For now Scott gave him some space probably fully intent on interrogating him after school.

Stiles leaned back and took small breaths. He wasn't keen on the idea of going back to class or said interrogation, and the sound of the bell triggering another wave of nausea decided it for him that he wasn't going to deal with either. Instead he thought it best to go home and try to ease the ever growing panic that came with this weird hypersensitivity thing going on. He knew that driving home was no longer an option because how the hell they managed to keep such tight regulations on the parking lot astounded everyone, who wanted to work here after everything that had happened.

He opted out for walking to his house, it wasn't to far anyways. Hoisting his bag up he stumbled still a bit dizzy in the head. He used the low walls as balance and worked his way around the lacrosse field. It wasn't to hard a decision to make, considering it seemed t be the only clear and visible coherent thought he could manage without throwing up. Which he only did once and he deeply regretted eating pizza that day.

He had to take a minute to stop an sit down on the side of the road catching his breath. He hadn't felt this sick in a very long time, which included the famous "food poising at your own hand" he had suffered back in the seventh grade. He didn't know when he got lost in that thought but knew it was to long when he heard a snapping noise in the woods on the opposite side of the road. Then another coming towards the edge of he woods. Somehow his current state of mind took this as the warning it was and he was on his feet in seconds.

Apparently that warning his brain had latched on to was the only thing it had latched onto, which explained how he ended up crashing over a branch with barely breath in him a good mile from the road. Since when did he have a "fight or why not run?" complex...

He couldn't really dwell on that since he was also in the process of violent throwing up, his body wracked with tremors and this adrenaline over drive making it hard to breath and think at the same time. The minutes dragged by and that drive quickly became his worst enemy as it triggered a panic attack. He clutched at his chest and bile covered shirt wheezing for air. His vision blackened at the edges and the sounds around him were deafening. He could just make out the sound of gnarly growl and branches snapping then something like an even louder snapping and it echoed off the trees, Stiles crawled away while the noises surrounded everything, he crawled and cried and threw up and everything was crashing in on him that he entirely went blank...

Some time after the loss of thoughts and feeling he found himself laying on the side or the road with his phone in his hands and he was going in and out of consciousness. The loud screech of rubber burned through lightly and he felt more than saw someone standing over him.

And again the same garbled voice... "Stiles...easy Stiles..." he could feel the electricity that came with hands bracing themselves on his shoulders and turning him around."Stiles let go...I've got you..."

That was the last thing he managed to catch before collapsing onto the darkness...

Something about the voice lulled him into tumultuous dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles was drifting, in and out of limbo.

He remembered someone in the woods hoisting him up and semi-carefully guiding him over the road and he can clearly recall the feeling of laying in the backseat of a rather cold car simply because he was currently laying in the backseat of a really cold car. It wasn't so bad really, the cold somewhat helped to stave off the rest of his attack and it cleared his senses. He could hear the driver talking and the words slurred coming into his ears,"No I don't know whats wrong him..." a pause a huff and a sudden wave of nausea, "Scott is the alpha now, he should be taking care of him..." bitterness that made him sicker, "Just meet there...I won't be held responsible for him..." and then the feeling like the world finally lost its grip on gravity was to strong for Stiles so he closed his eyes and tried to block out the feeling with low whimpers.

Every few minutes he would doze off then come to. The ride was silent after that confusing conversation( confusing because Stiles didn't know who was talking or what it was about because coherent thoughts weren't happening) the windows were tinted, but he could see the downtown Beacon Hills building complexes. At the moment his mind was still to fuddled to understand that he was in some strangers car possibly being kidnapped. What it did understand was that the walls weren't closing in on him and that wow car rides are a great time to comatose...

His mammas voice came out like a song through a record...Her gently hands shushing him and petting his head calmly. She still smelt like medicine and vanilla cupcakes. "Stiles...sweet little bird... It's alright. I'm here now..." she smiled and shushed his complaints. She gently set a wet rag over his eyes...

When he came to again it was back. The fever that crept up his spine and made him tremor. Fighting to keep conscious and fighting to not throw up were seriously contradicting themselves. Not sure when they had stopped or when he was manhandled out of the car, he could only recognize the hazy orange light that usually came with apartment parking garages. Whoever was dragging him around at least seemed to care some as, oh hey second pair of hands were grabbing him and hoisting an arm around broad shoulders. They maneuvered him into an elevator. He groaned as the bright light pierced his eyes and sent him swaying. Soft fabric went over his head in an attempt to calm him. It didn't really connect that he knew the smell on the fabric. Not when he was being lead into a warm hallway. He didn't remember to much after that once he collapsed against the warmer body tending to him...

Saturday morning was especially reserved for cartoons and leftover breakfast. While Papa Stilinski was at work his mamma would sit down with him and sip of her coffee, laughing at the coyote and the roadrunner right alongside him. Since he was sick she let him eat pizza, she always let him eat pizza when he was sick. It was a matter of fact that his dad would grab some curly fries before he came home also. Sometime between the odd changing of toons and continuous hum of the room Stiles figure out it was a dream. But no one could accuse him of being selfish when he let his consciousness slip back so he could cuddle up to the ghost of his mother. But he didn't get away with it for long...

He didn't remember waking up from that wonderful lapse of reality, but he did and knew so because yet again he was violently throwing up. He was buzzing again, the outside noises muddling in and caging him again. At least the room was dark, and cold. Two bonuses in one go what luck...oh yeah there goes more of his lunch...His skin had a thin seen of cold sweat and his hair felt to damp against his forehead. Usually he could find humor in this situation but not even a clown would be smiling. He groaned lowly and lay back taking in the white ceiling. There was a fan spinning and looking at it made him feel worse. He turned his head and the movements made his groan again. It was a fever, that's what had been bothering him. But coupled with the hypersensitivity it felt like death slapping him a round again, yeah...again. He didn't have much time to contemplate that seeing that again he was blacking out.

Stiles woke up in a cold room, sometime in the night. It was and wasn't his room...the same blue walls but different posters and furniture. He remembers how much he loves those toys that he had scattered on the floor. He just woke up from a bad dream and he didn't know where his favourite stuffed bear was so softly he slides off his bed and pads over to his door peaking around it. His nightlight didn't reach out into the hall, and the shadows scared him. "Mommy..." he put on a brave face and walked along the hall to his mother and father's room. He opened their door and shuddered, "Daddy...Mommy..." they were still sound asleep. He pouts and pads over crawling onto the bed and sliding in between them snuggling up to his mom. It didn't matter they were still sleeping, he felt safe...

Soft music drifted into his sensations. A low melody that scratched in a way only an old record could. The song was old and the voice probably dead, but it was comforting for some odd reason. Stiles was slow to open his eyes and take a census on his sense. He was warm...but that was because of the mound of feather comforter tucked around him. It was the same dark room but the windows now let in the soft mid morning light. So the last time he had awaken it was dark outside, which didn't actually help him decide how long he had been out. He rose up gently and winced at the bruises on his arm..hand prints actually. He could vaguely remember waking up once and thrashing about wildly frightened by some nightmare... he rubbed his arm and looked around spotting the prime candidate for the was an old black phonograph that stood out stark to the relatively modern room.

Upon closer inspection though, once he managed to stumble over with one of the comforters draped around him, he discovered it wasn't black but charred, a badly burned but carefully restored functioning phonograph. He looked around and took careful mind notes of his surroundings. The room had dark wood floors and bark brown walls. The drapes and comforters were a gentle forestry green. The rugs were stark white on the floor and the decorations or such things were all modern bookcases and glass table with a rolling chair beneath. The bookcase had everything ranging from Faulkner to Dickens, and then to some seriously deep theoretical books on The Neurological Study Concerning Trauma Patients. And does this all makes sense now because beside the bed table is a an old burnt photo of a younger Peter Hale and Stiles assumed was Natalia Hale. So he was currently in Peter's room, which was disturbing in itself but more so not knowing how long he had been there.

The door had been left cracked and the walk down the multi doored hall was just long enough to make Stiles nervous on what he might find. But it was quiet and totally not strung up with bodies like Stiles had dramatized. The main room was connected to a kitchen by a small wall and bar, and the living room was just as modern as the bedroom. The floor was the same but the walls were lighter brown and tan golds. The couch was white like the rugs but it was more eggshell. Stiles took a seat and curled up wrapping himself in the comforter. He would wait for answers that would come, until then he thought up his questions.

First, what happened to him. Second, how long was he out, and third important one, who had helped him into the apartments because that was a two person manhandling. He also wondered if his Dad of Scott knew that he was gone. He didn't have to wait to long for someone to show up, and the sharp click of the door unlocking caught his attention quick. He heard a soft sigh and papers hit a side table before the pause.

"So, your finally awake." Peter for once didn't sound like the world owed his it attention, instead he sounded like a tired man who just wanted coffee. Stiles shrugged, "Awake...maybe not alive..." he peeked over the couch, "I assume that since I'm seeing Satan himself then..."

Peter huffed,"Ha ha very funny, not your best though." Peter made his way into his kitchen an started to set up some coffee. Stiles shrugged again and sank back into the warmth he had encompassed himself into. Peter came back a while later and set two cups down, one for himself and one in front of Stiles on a decorative coaster. Stiles eyed it for a minute and Peter sneered,"I didn't poison it. Just to assure you."

Stiles shook his head and reached out gently,"I don't drink coffee a lot...not very good for my ADD." he sipped at the vanilla flavoured beverage gingerly. Peter nods and sits back in the tense but acceptable silence. Stiles eyed him before stating his first question, "Curious to know if you might have figured out why I was passing out in the middle of the woods. Also, where you following me?"

Peter quirked an eyebrow,"Deaton is still checking the books to see if you may have been poisoned...and you called me remember." he stated it matter of fact.

Stiles paused,"I called you? I don't remember that... I mean yeah I don't really remember a lot but still, mind catching me up?" he sat up straighter. Peter nods, "I was at home and you called me, rambling on about being attacked and that your legs wouldn't work...some other terrifying things about seeing people hanging from trees." he blinked quizzically at Stiles.

Stiles froze up and his throat tightened he could feel his skin go cold. Peter sat up quickly,"Stiles?"

Stiles shook his head,"It wasn't you chasing me through the woods...across the road..." Peter shook his head and Stiles leaned back his nervous fidget kicking in.

Peter nods slowly,"You were followed then..by something.." he pause thinking,"About three days ago actually. You kept going in and out with a fever and chills." Peter looked at his arms curiously,"Woke up screaming a few times..." Stiles rubbed at his sore arm. Peter shook his head,"Well now that you can move without throwing up food you haven't eaten, your father has been interrogated Derek and Scott as to your whereabouts." Stiles eyes shpt up,"My dad didn't know? Crap...yeah I have t get home.." he groaned and slumped,"I think I left my jeep.." Peter interrupted him, "Scott took care of it. He came in here demanding my head on a stick for bringing you to him first...had to us the whole 'he is dying at this moment' technique to calm him."

Stiles flinched lightly, he felt awful for putting Scott through that again. Peter stood up and walked towards the hall,"Your clothes were covered in dirt and other sorts of things, and I have enough to just let you keep those." with that he slipped into one of the rooms. Stiles had only shortly wondered why he was wearing a pair of dark grey sweats and a thin short sleeved plain t-shirt. "I'm astonished you have normal shirts to be honest." he could hear Peter scoff and barely missed the bag of clothes fly at his head. "Your dad made it clear he'd shoot me and Derek if you didn't get back to his house the second you manage to start feeling well enough to. And I'm pretty sure Chris gave him bullets before he left"

Sties laughed lightly and pulled out the battered red hoodie, it had been freshly cleaned and maybe even still felt warm. He barely hesitated before pulling it over his head and pulling on his sneakers. Mentally taking note that Derek was the second semi-kidnapper semi-rescuer.

The ride was shorter now that he was in the moment and not lagging with three second delay. And after a quick for food that Stiles was absolutely willing to kill for, they pulled up to the Stilinski house hold. Scott's new bike was sitting out front and it briefly filled Stiles with the worst kind of feelings. When Ethan had left he had passed Aiden's bike over to Scott, said that someone needed to look after it. Peter sensing the tension clear his throat and leaned back"Better hurry and make something up, he's been here the whole time."

Stiles nodded and slid out of the car,"Thanks I guess..for keeping me alive..." he quickly forced the words out and Peer waved a hand,"Done it before, probably be forced to do it again." Stiles huffed an closed the door before turning for the house. The car puled out shortly after and left him alone to face the brutal loving thing he called family.


End file.
